Man is born broken. He lives by mending.
The grace of God is glue.
—Eugene O’Neill
My mother, Ellen Layton, had thrown a tree-decorating party at Christmas for as long as I could remember. When my brother, Hugh, and I were small, the party would begin first thing on a Saturday morning. Mom would rouse us out of bed with the smells of bacon, and pancakes in the shape of snowmen. Then the entire family would load into the station wagon and head to Hurley’s Farm—John Hurley was an old friend of my father’s—for a trek deep into the woods. My father, Albert, wielded the ax, occasionally letting one of us take a careful whack at the prized tree. Even later, when he’d acquired a small, gasoline-powered chain saw, my father insisted that the Christmas tree be hewn by ax, an antique double-bladed tool passed down by my grandfather, because it was tradition. Once home, Dad and I positioned the tree while Mom and Hugh braved the cold attic for the abundance of Christmas ornaments and decorations Mom had collected over the years. Mom sang and danced with Dad to Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” while Hugh and I busily continued with the tree, pretending not to see our parents’ silliness.
I cannot ever recall seeing my mother happier than she was on those tree-decorating days. A joy radiated from her, and even from my father, who routinely conked out at six-thirty every evening, after getting up at five every morning to go to work. The whole family would get caught up in Mom’s ecstasy, and would sing and decorate until every last ornament had a limb to call home. After we were grown, and my father had died, Mom continued her tree-decorating parties with another widow in the neighborhood. Just because they were alone didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy the beauty of Christmas. When the grandchildren came along, the parties regained some of their traditional momentum, with the exception that we’d buy a tree from a supermarket parking lot instead of cutting one down from Hurley’s farm, which saved time, and besides, the trees were invariably fuller and more symmetrical than the scruffier wild trees my father used to drag home.
A few weeks before Christmas, Kate and I loaded the girls into the Mercedes and drove the short distance to my mother’s house. Mom had lived in the same brick Tudor house for more than forty years, and even though she was sixty-eight and lived alone, she insisted on decorating the outside of her home as a winter wonderland. Garlands of holly and ivy draped over the doorway, and a huge evergreen wreath hung prominently in the center of the door and on each of the front windows, tied with wide red-velvet ribbons. Bright electric candles threw off a brilliant light in the center of each window. Strands of small twinkling lights wrapped each yew and juniper and evergreen shrub, as well as each tree in the front lawn that could be reached with a ladder. The bigger trees provided the backdrop for the Nativity scene, complete with lighting.
When we were little boys, Hugh and I helped my mother set up the Nativity. She had bought the handcrafted Nativity years ago at a yard sale. Though my mother’s home was filled with magnificent antiques, she always claimed the twenty-dollar Nativity was one of her most prized possessions. As kids, my brother and I saw the set as little more than a collection of large wooden dolls, but each year Mom would explain the meaning of the Nativity to us. “This is the most miraculous thing about Christ’s life, boys,” she’d say. “The most miraculous thing isn’t that He rose from the grave. He’s the Son of God—you’d expect God to be able to raise His own son from the grave. Don’t you think?” And we would eagerly nod our heads in agreement. “But that’s not the most spectacular thing at all. What’s spectacular and mind-boggling is that God would want to leave the beauty of heaven to come to live here as a man. And you’d think that since Jesus was the King of Kings that he’d at least be born in a castle somewhere, not in some dirty barn. That’s what’s amazing!” she’d exclaim, turning Joseph ever so slightly toward Mary. “That’s why Christmas is so special. Jesus came as a baby to Bethlehem—a baby that would grow up to live as a servant, not as a king.” Plugging in the floodlights that beamed over the back of the shepherds onto the baby in the manger, she’d continue, “That’s the beauty and wonder of Christmas, and that’s why we’ll set up the Nativity for as long as we can—to remind us. Isn’t it a nice reminder, boys?” And we’d earnestly nod our heads again.
Since my father died, Dalton Gregory, Mom’s neighbor of twenty years, had helped haul, hang, and string the outdoor decorations. He also shoveled her walk and drive when it snowed, though she never asked him to, no small commitment in the winter of 1985. Dalton and his family were the first black family to move to the neighborhood, arriving in 1965, and when the moving trucks backed into the driveway, my mother stood ready to work, holding a platter full of sandwiches and chips. When they moved in, Dalton worked as a high school history teacher and his wife, Heddy, worked in the intensive care unit of the hospital as a nurse. In 1976, Dalton was made superintendent of schools, and even though his job kept him busier than ever before, he still marked on his calendar the day he would help my mother decorate her house. Twenty years separated them, but Mom, Dalton, and Heddy were more than just neighbors. They were friends. Dalton was hunched over, stringing his own simple strand of lights along the porch rails, when I got out of the car.
“Merry Christmas, Dalton! The house is award-winning. As usual.”
“It better be. Your mother about worked me to death out here in the freezing cold.”
“Why do you do it every year, Dalton?”
“Because there are three things I’m afraid of in life: my mother, my wife, and your mother. And at Christmas, I reverse the order!”
My mother swung open the front door and shouted “Merry Christmas” loud enough to wake Heddy’s patients in the ICU. Hannah and Lily ran to their grandmother, wrapping their tiny arms around her waist. “Here are my Christmas babies!” Mom cried, kissing and squeezing them until they pulled away, giggling. Walking to the edge of her driveway, she teased, “Where are your Christmas babies, Dalton?”
“Just give my kids time,” he said wearily, shaking his head. “One day they’ll figure out how to make babies and you won’t be the only obnoxious grandparent in the neighborhood!”
“Maybe not, but I’ll still hold the title of being the first!”
“The first and the loudest,” he laughed.
“Are you and Heddy coming over for lunch tomorrow?” she asked, rocking Lily back and forth on the top of her feet.
“I didn’t know we were invited.”
“I just invited you!” she said.
“Then we’re coming,” he replied waving his arm to shoo her away.
Mom led her brood into the house, which was very much like a Christmas botanical garden, with poinsettias, holly, and a garland of pine boughs filling the huge foyer. As Kate and I entered through the heavy cherry door, Mom playfully pointed out the mistletoe hanging just above us. Trying to avoid any awkwardness, we clumsily kissed Mom on both sides of her face.
“Not me,” Mom joked, pointing at the mistletoe. “You’re supposed to kiss each other.” But Kate and I were already taking off our coats, preparing for a day of decorating. Mom promptly slid my coat back on, sending me out with a handful of money for the tree.
“Ferguson’s, on the other side of town, has the prettiest ones, but they’re more expensive,” she instructed. “Maybe you should try the Daly’s lot first. The trees there are smaller, but they’re priced better.”
“Where do you want me to go, Mother?” I sighed.
“Better get it at Daly’s. It’s closer.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
“No! Wait!” she screamed. “Go to Ferguson’s. I can’t stand the idea of a small tree at Christmas. Get a great big pretty one at Ferguson’s.”
“You’re sure?”
She paused for a moment and thought over the advantages and disadvantages of each lot.
“Yes,” she finally sputtered. “Get a big, beautiful one at Ferguson’s.”
As I closed the front door behind me, Mom led Kate, Hannah, and Lily to the attic to retrieve the decorations. As they unwrapped each ornament, Mom would say “Your grandfather gave this to me on our first Christmas together” or “Your father made this for me when he was your age.” Downstairs, in the living room, the girls presented their grandmother with the ornaments they’d made with Kate’s help. I’d come home the night they’d made them, asking Kate the next morning about the mess left on the dining-room table. Kate always knew I hated cluttered, messy rooms and I accused her of leaving things in disarray on purpose.
I think my mother sensed something was wrong between us from the moment we walked in the door, but she also knew that neither one of us would want to talk about it, so she made as much small talk as possible.
“What are you doing in school, Lily?” she asked our dark-haired six-year-old.
“Learning about bugs,” she said, squirming. Tugging at her sweater, she claimed, “Itched like the dickens.”
“Ew. I don’t think I’d want to learn about bugs,” Mom said, scrunching up her face.
“I don’t either, but they make you, anyway.” Lily shrugged.
“How’s Robert’s work, Kate?” The two women had always had a good relationship. Mom knew not to meddle, and Kate always appreciated her mother-in-law’s “What-I-don’t-know-isn’t-my-business-anyway” approach to her marriage.
“It’s the same. Busy,” Kate replied, head deep in a box of decorations.
“Has Gwen had her Christmas cry yet?”
“I guess so,” Kate laughed.
“Will he be taking any time off for the holidays?”
“Christmas Day,” Kate answered, without looking at her. “I don’t know if he has any others scheduled. You know how busy he is.”
“Daddy says he has a stack of work this high on his desk,” Hannah exclaimed, standing on tiptoes and holding her hand far above her head.
Mom would withhold judgment until later, but she intended to wring my arrogant, ambitious, and selfish neck when I got back.
Although she could easily afford someone to cook and clean for her, Mom absolutely refused to have someone do this. “Why would I want someone to clean my home when I could get it cleaner?” she’d say to me. My father’s salary as an insurance executive had afforded the best of everything in the home and had kept Mom comfortable since his death. I often wondered if she insisted on doing her own chores because it kept her busy, and that kept her from missing my father so much.
The girls buzzed around the tree while the dinner cooked, and my mother handed out popcorn strings, ornaments, and tinsel. Everyone scattered their treasures on the tall, dark spruce, while Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Ella Fitzgerald entertained. When the last of the tinsel was hung, Kate set the table for dinner, and Mom carried in the platter of pot roast surrounded by potatoes, carrots, and rings of onions. A steaming bowl of green beans was set out, along with gravy, broccoli salad, fresh rolls, and iced tea. I couldn’t remember why, but my mother had always served pot roast on tree-decorating day, probably for no better reason than that it had been on sale at Daly’s twenty-five years ago—not much to base a family tradition on, if you thought about it. We made small talk around the table, most of it focusing on the girls and school and dance classes. Hannah proudly told her grandmother that she was first understudy to Clara in The Nutcracker. I promised that next year she’d get the starring role. Kate said we’d be just as proud of her if she didn’t get the lead. Mom played along with us, pretending that everything was okay. Despite the fact that I felt like a fraud inside, I was pleased I hadn’t spoiled my mother’s holiday tradition. As Lily swallowed her last bite of German chocolate cake, Kate stood and began to clear the table.
“Kate, I’ll get those,” Mom insisted.
“No, Mom. Let me wash up.”
“No, not today. Take the girls into the living room and enjoy the tree. Play that game they’ve been begging us to play with them all day. Robert will help me.”
Kate slipped away from the dining-room table, thankful, no doubt, that she wouldn’t be cornered in the same room with me, and ushered Hannah and Lily into the living room.
I stacked the dirty dishes and carried them into the kitchen. Mom began to scrape what was left on the plates into the garbage disposal as I continued to bring in bowls and dishes from the table. Then she asked me point-blank, “What’s going on with you and Kate?”
I looked at her, shocked, stunned even. “Going on?” I stammered, trying to act nonchalant. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Robert, how old do I look?” she asked loading the dishwasher.
“Is this where I say you don’t look a day over forty-five?”
“How old do I look, Robert?” she said impatiently.
“Mother, what is the point of the question, because I know how old you are. You’re sixty-eight.”
“And in sixty-eight years, don’t you think I’ve picked up a little discernment? A smidge of perception?”
“We’re in the middle of an argument,” I sighed. “You remember what those are. You and dad had them. Every couple has them.”
“I’ve seen you two argue before,” she said, turning on the garbage disposal.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Mom,” I answered sarcastically.
“Sit down, Robert.”
“I’m helping you clean up.”
“I don’t want you to help. I want you to sit.”
I sat at the kitchen table as my mother put on a pot of coffee. She continued to load the dishwasher as she confronted me. “I know Kate. She’s been in this family for a long time now. I know when there’s something more than an argument going on between you two.”
I swished a Christmas card around on the table as I pondered how to tell her. This wasn’t going to be easy. She loved Kate like a daughter. I knew my mother wouldn’t naturally take my side in the matter. She was too honest for that. I’d have to tell her the truth and be done with it.
“The marriage is over, Mom,” I said bluntly, staring at the Christmas card.
“Why?” she questioned, dumping leftover broccoli salad into a Pyrex dish.
Why? I didn’t know why.
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure of what?”
I knew my mother wasn’t going to make this easy.
“I’m not sure why the marriage is over.”
“Well you’re in it, so surely you must have some idea as to why it’s over,” she said, stacking Pyrex dishes full of leftover food into the refrigerator.
“Mom, I’ve done everything I can,” I stammered. “I’ve worked hard. I’ve provided a good living. A great home. I’ve given Kate and the girls everything they could ever want, but it’s never good enough.” I paused, waiting for my mother to interject, but her back remained to me as she cleaned. “Over the last couple of years we’ve just kind of grown apart.”
I sat and waited for her response. She pulled out a soft-scrubbing cleanser from beneath the sink and rubbed diligently at a stubborn stain on the countertop. She held her tongue and simply listened. I shifted uncomfortably in the silence. I almost wished she would just let me have it rather than leaving me hanging.
“We just have different interests,” I continued awkwardly. “I guess when we first got married we were both on the same page, so to speak. We wanted the same things. Shared a lot of the same goals. But somehow over the years all that shifted. I don’t know how. Same as it does for a lot of marriages, I guess.”
She reached into a cabinet for two coffee cups and poured a cup, sitting it in front of me. She quietly poured herself a cup and sat across from me, staring into my eyes. She always told me I looked so much like my father around the eyes—I’m sure she wondered why I wasn’t acting like him.
“If you had to pinpoint what the number-one problem of the marriage is, would you be able to do that?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. This really wasn’t the conversation I wanted to be having right now. “Um…”
“You don’t know what the number-one problem is?” she pressed. “Because I do.”
I looked up at her. This was exactly the conversation I wanted to avoid. My mother was never one to beat around the bush. I couldn’t even begin to recall the times in my youth that I heard “Do you know what your problem is?” as she would continue to lay bare everything before me. In the same way, I always knew that if I approached her with any problem, she would be honest and open with me. It was the only approach she knew.
“Your marriage isn’t working because you’re too selfish to live with,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“Thanks for the cup of Christmas cheer, Mother,” I said, toasting her with my coffee.
“You’ve grown apart? I get so sick of hearing floundering couples say they’ve grown apart! I always want to say, ‘Well, dingbats—what have you done to try to stay together?’”
“We’ve tried everything, Mom.”
“And what is everything? You come home at eight or nine o’clock at night. You work on weekends. What exactly have you done to keep the marriage together?”
It was funny. For as long as I had been a lawyer, no judge or opposing attorney had ever been able to fluster me the way my mother could. I shook my head, watching the dark liquid swirl and slosh up the sides of the cup in my hands.
“What, Robert? What have you personally contributed to the marriage to hold it together?”
“I don’t know, Mom. How about I’ve provided Kate with everything she could ever want.”
“You’ve never given her yourself.”
“I’ve given her…”
“You’ve given her things,” she interrupted. “Never yourself. There’s a huge difference. You’ve tried to finance your happiness, and that doesn’t work. Kate never wanted to live in a huge house or…”
“Mom, you’ve always lived in a huge house, and you’re happy.”
“Because your father made me happy,” she said with sting. “I’d have lived in a shoe box with him. It had nothing to do with the house. Kate never asked you for a new BMW, or for a big house, or for expensive clothes, because those weren’t things that she wanted.”
“She never had to ask for them because I gave them to her before she asked,” I said triumphantly.
“Exactly!” she agreed. “Because those were all things you wanted her to have. Giving Kate things was so much easier for you than ever giving one minute of yourself. Piling stuff in front of her and the kids was a great way to block them from you. Women don’t want stuff, Robert. They want your attention. Kids don’t want things. They can only play with so many toys at one time. What they want is their daddy to pay attention to them and hold them and laugh with them. That’s what everybody has ever wanted from the beginning of time!”
I looked around the kitchen, hoping my mother would finish soon.
“You said you have different interests now? How would you even know what Kate’s interests or dreams are? Tell me—what are her dreams?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The usual things, to have a healthy family, and see the girls finish school and…”
“Those are hopes,” my mother said. “Everybody has them. I’m talking about dreams. What are they? What are Kate’s dreams?” She waited. I didn’t answer, because I couldn’t. Whatever they were, they were Kate’s dreams, her business—she was free to pursue them, just as I was free to pursue mine.
“You don’t know, do you? You’re never there long enough to ask her. Maybe it’s your interests that have changed,” she said slowly. “Maybe other women are a little more interesting these days.”
I rolled my eyes and groaned.
“There is no other woman, Mother. There never has been. Why do women always assume there’s another woman?”
“Maybe because a wife figures that if you’re not seeking attention from her, then you must naturally be looking for it somewhere else.”
This was really an area I did not want to talk about with my mother!
“Mom. Believe me on this. There has never been another woman. Never.” Oh how I wished she would release me from this conversation. “Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I’m too busy to even think about taking on another woman in my life.”
“You’re right,” she said, nodding her head. “I apologize. I should have put a little more thought into that. You’re way too busy to have a mistress when work is your mistress.”
I buried my face in my hands. “You are making my head hurt, Mother.”
She ignored me and forged ahead. “Sexual conquests make some men feel more powerful,” she said, as if reading from the latest Ladies’ Home Journal.
“Mother, can we please stop talking about this?” I begged.
“But your conquests aren’t made in bed.” I put my head down on the table. “Your conquests are at work. You’re only as good as your last victory—but the little victories at home never count—the first steps, the crayon drawings on the refrigerator door, the first visit from the Tooth Fairy. None of that matters to you. Those little moments—those simple everyday victories—don’t mean anything to you, but they mean everything in the world to Kate.” I buried my head into my arms, bringing my hands over the top of my head. Despite my attempts to quiet my mother, she continued anyway. “Those everyday successes are never enough for you. It’s the wins at work that make you feel like a man, not the little girls who wrap their arms around your legs and call you Daddy. It’s the power high at work that charges your batteries, not the power you have in helping mold and shape another person’s life.” She stopped, exasperated. Sighing heavily, she added, “I just don’t think I understand how you could so easily give up those precious little babies for something that’s never going to matter on your deathbed.”
I looked at my watch. It felt as if her verbal lashing had gone on for hours. The thought that I was giving up easily was preposterous. I was merely trying to be realistic.
“Are you in a hurry?” she lovingly snipped.
“No, Mother, I was just checking to see if you beat the record for talking the longest without taking a breath.”
She laughed and poured me another cup of coffee, slicing off another piece of German chocolate cake.
“I don’t want that, Mom,” I said, but it was no use.
“Dalton and Heddy won’t be able to finish up all that cake. I need to get rid of it.”
As she turned her back to pour more coffee into her cup, I picked up my fork and began to separate the sweet, gooey coconut icing from the rest of the cake. “Eat all of it, Robert. Not just the topping,” she said, scolding, without looking. Resigned, I pushed the frosting back to the cake and took a bite.
“Things are a lot different now than when you were married, Mom,” I said with a mouth full of cake. “People go through more complicated things than they did back when you and Dad married.”
“And what are those things?” she asked, interested. “Power? Prestige? Jockeying for top position on the corporate ladder?” Her brow raised and crinkled after each question, seeking a response from me. “Those things have been around for centuries,” she stated with certainty. “There’s nothing new under the sun—just the same mistakes made time and time again, but the thing is, we’re actually getting worse at figuring out what those mistakes are. Why do you think your divorce-lawyer colleagues are so busy?”
I sipped the coffee and swallowed hard, looking at my mother. “Mom, at this point Kate and I are past the mending stage. Things have gone broken for so long that they would be too hard to fix now. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. We were going to tell you after the holidays because we didn’t want to spoil Christmas for you or for her parents.”
“How very grown up of you,” she offered acerbically.
“But I have thought about trying to fix things. I really have. The bottom line is, making the effort wouldn’t be worth it because Kate doesn’t love me anymore.” Somehow those words hurt more than I expected. “I’m sorry, Mom, but it’s true.”
She set her cup down with a thump.
“Nonsense,” she blurted. “I know Kate. I know women. I know she still loves you, but she doesn’t feel loved, Robert. All she wants is to feel that you love and need her and can’t live without her. You make her feel like you’re living with her because you have to, not because you want to. Women want to feel cherished, and that they’re the most important thing in your life. You’ve made Kate feel as if she’s the third or fourth most important thing, and the girls don’t feel anything at all. You’re just some guy who pays the cable bill and wanders through the living room from time to time.” Her voice softened. “But I know she loves you, Robert. I know it wouldn’t take Kate long to remember why she fell in love with you in the first place, and if you’d give up some of the things you’re holding tight in your claws, you’d remember why you fell in love with her.”
“Sounds easy, doesn’t it?” I mocked.
“No,” she retorted, defensively. “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t sound easy at all. That’s why divorce is skyrocketing—because it’s much easier than actually working at the marriage. But there isn’t a book anywhere that says marriage is easy.” Her eyes blazed. “Never in the history of marriage ceremonies has any minister ever said, ‘You may kiss the bride and be on your way to an easy life.’ Whoever said ‘Life’s a breeze’ should be smacked! That person didn’t have a clue. Life isn’t easy. Just when you get close to having it figured out, they haul you away in a hearse.”
I leaned back in the chair, interlocking my fingers on top of my head. “Things sure did seem a lot easier for you and Dad.”
She burst into laughter. “Oh, my goodness. Your father and I were like Ralph Kramden and Lucy Ricardo the first ten years of our marriage. He always wanted his way, and I always wanted mine, and we’d roll up our sleeves, jump into the ring, and duke it out till one of us got tired,” she laughed. “If one person in a marriage expects to always get his or her way, they’re going to be mighty disappointed.”
“Ralph Kramden and Lucy Ricardo weren’t even on the same show,” I said.
“Exactly!”
“But you always worked things out. Kate and I have never been able to do that.” I looked deep into the empty coffee cup. “When Dad died, you didn’t have any regrets.”
She thought for a moment and then scooted her chair away from the table. “Come with me,” she motioned.
I followed as she led me upstairs and into the bedroom she’d shared with my father for over thirty years. She removed the hand-stitched quilt from atop the cedar chest her mother had given them on their wedding day and opened the cherry lid, the familiar piney fragrance I remembered from childhood filling the room. Rummaging through the chest, she lifted out a small box and opened the lid. She folded open the tissue paper and pulled out a long, straight-stemmed pipe made of burly briar and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is my regret,” she answered softly. “This is a Dunhill Billiard from England. Your father always wanted one. I was saving it for a special occasion.” She took it back from me. “You know what I thought about as I held your father’s hand when he lay dying in that coma after his heart attack? I thought about this Dunhill Billiard pipe, buried up here in this stupid chest.” She stared at it for a moment and then re-wrapped the pipe in the tissue paper. “I don’t know what sort of occasion I was waiting for,” she said quietly, her voice trailing off, “because every day was a special occasion with your father. Every single day.” She tucked the box back into the chest and closed the lid. Taking my hands, she pulled me down on top of it, sitting next to me.
“Don’t treat your wife or your kids like they’re not special, Robert,” she whispered, her eyes glistening. “They should be the most special people in the world to you.”
“I know, Mom,” I said squeezing her arm.
“No. You don’t. Maybe once you’ve lost them, you will. But don’t lose them Robert.” She grabbed my face and spoke plainly to me, “You and Kate can still make it,” she said sincerely. “It’s still fixable. But you have to work on fixing yourself first. It’s too easy to want to fix someone else but the hard part is fixing yourself. Instead of demanding more from her, you need to give more of yourself.” She dropped her hands and folded them around mine. “No man ever really lives, Robert,” she said softly, “until he gives himself away to others. That’s what you need to do. What did I always tell you and your brother at Christmas?”
I rolled it off my tongue as if on tape. “That that’s why Jesus was born in a manger. He humbled Himself to give His life away for mankind. That’s the meaning of Christmas.” I then spoke in a high voice to imitate my mother, “Isn’t that right, boys?”
She laughed and smacked my leg. “Finally, you’ve remembered something I’ve said over the years. Now why don’t you ever put any of that good advice to practice?”
She turned off the lights in her bedroom and was heading back to the kitchen when Lily greeted us on the stairs. “Grandma, I need a treat,” she giggled. My mother raced her downstairs and cut slices of cake for everyone except me. (I just couldn’t stomach the thought of one more piece.) She poured milk into tall Santa glasses for the girls and sat down at the table with them for the final snack of the day. When they finished eating, Mom took one more picture of Hannah and Lily by the tree, and then it was time for everyone to gather up their coats and hats and mittens, the great swishing of Gore-Tex and nylon ending with hugs at the front door. It was snowing again. Three inches had collected on top of the car since dinner. My mother told me to drive carefully and to call and let her know we were safe.
She went back to the kitchen and finished washing the dishes. She wrapped the leftover cake for Dalton and Heddy. Then, shutting off all the lights in the kitchen and living room, my mother fell into her favorite winged chair, the one she and my father purchased years ago at an auction, and stared into the lights of the uneven, magnificent mess of a Christmas tree her granddaughters had decorated, and closed her eyes. A few minutes later, the phone rang once, my signal that we were home safely. Only then could she fall asleep.